


Witness

by TheInverseUniverse



Category: Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: AR Febuwhump (Alex Rider), Alex Rider Needs a Hug, Captivity, FebuWhump2021, Febuwhump Day 28: You Have to Let Me Go, Gen, Kidnapping, Started Writing It Had Breakdown Bon Appetit, Stockholm Syndrome, TV Verse canon divergence, Torture, no beta; we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29750481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheInverseUniverse/pseuds/TheInverseUniverse
Summary: Martin’s eyes widened. “Shit. That’s Ian’s kid.”Yassen frowned and ever so slightly tilted his head. “His son?”“No,” Martin said with a shake of his head. His eyes were wide with panic. “His nephew.”Something on Yassen’s face changed. It wasn’t softer, but it was different“Shit,” Martin said again. He was antsy and drawn, and jittered like he was jonesing. “He’s a witness. We weren’t- Damn it, we weren’t supposed to have to kill a kid!”-------Day 28 of Febuwhump: "You Have to Let Me Go."
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich & Alex Rider
Comments: 51
Kudos: 103
Collections: AR Febuwhump 2021





	1. Murder

**Author's Note:**

> Started writing, had a breakdown, bon appetit.
> 
> This idea came to me in November and I lost steam, but then revived it for febuwhump. I'll have about 12k published by the end of the 28th, and then more will come later. This is gonna be a _long_ one. Enjoy!

“ _Look, I’m not going myself, man,_ ” Tom said over the video call. “ _So if you’re not-_ ”

The door to Alex’s room swung open and Alex quickly muted the call. From his doorway, Ian said, “I’ve got to go back to the office, I’ll see you later, alright?”

“Yeah,” Alex agreed from his bed, keeping his poker face.

“Okay,’ Ian said, and started to leave. But at the last second he turned and said, “Oh Alex, that um... that school you were talking about. That wasn’t Point Blanc, was it?”

Alex looked up at him with a slight frown. “Yeah. Why?”

“No reason, just well-remembered,” Ian said as he finally left and closed the door behind him.

Now Alex let the grin he’d been hiding show. Perfect.

“ _And the window of opportunity swings open,_ ” Tom said, and they both grinned. “ _Come on through._ ”

Without missing a beat, Alex closed the laptop and raced to get ready. He was out the door and on his bike in less than two minutes, and had met up with Tom in only a couple more.

They biked through the empty night-time streets of London, cutting across streets and through patios without a care in the world. Their banter was cut short when a car drove past a street ahead and Alex fell silent.

“You alright, mate?” Tom asked over his shoulder.

“That was Ian’s car.” Alex turned his bike around and stood on his pedals to follow the dark vehicle. 

Tom gawked for a minute before turning and following Alex. “What are you doing?”

“That was Ian’s car,” Alex explained again, racing in the direction the car went. “The bank’s on the other side of town. And he had somebody else with him.”

Tom shook his head in disbelief as they rounded a corner. “Maybe he’s on a date and didn’t tell you.”

“It was a man!”

“Maybe that’s why he didn’t tell you!” Tom called and laughed when Alex gave him the finger.

They could see the car but were losing ground. It merged onto a larger road and Alex reluctantly pulled to a stop. 

Tom caught up with him, panting from exertion. “Shit, mate! What are you doing?”

“I want to see where he’s going,” Alex explained, staring off at where the car had pulled away. “He’s not going to the office.”

“Who cares?” Tom asked, shaking his head at his friend. “You’ve lost him, let’s go to the party.”

Alex pulled out his phone. “I can track your phone and find him.”

“This is mad, Alex,” Tom said, leaning over his handlebars. “Just come and see if you can pull with Ayisha.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Alex said, not looking away from the exit. “I’ll just go see where he is and then come back to the party. You go without me, I’ll meet you there.”

“Mate,” Tom pleaded, but he could already tell it was a losing battle.

Alex logged into his app with Tom’s credentials and got a lock on his phone, updating every fifteen seconds as it moved down the motorway. He turned back to Tom and said, “I’ll meet you at Ayisha’s. If I don’t show, it’s ‘cause he saw me and I’m grounded for life.”

With only a wave of farewell, he set off again.

“You’re crazy!” Tom called as Alex biked away.

Normally, chasing a car on a bike would be impossible, but Alex had some advantages. He had the location, and he didn’t have to bother with traffic or the way the highway curved around. He could go as the crow flies. So when Ian got onto a stretch of motorway that bowed out before coming back to the city, he took a risk and pedaled full speed to that exit.

He got there only a minute after the car. The chase was on. Alex followed it through an industrial district, cutting through lawns and parking lots to gain on them. Finally, the blue circle of Tom’s phone came to a stop outside a warehouse, and Alex gunned it, standing on his pedals to get a last boost of speed. 

Ian’s car was at the front of the warehouse, empty, and so Alex went around the back. He leaned his bike up against the wall and took a moment to slow his breathing. Vandals or squatters had already broken the backdoor, leaving it hanging open with a busted lock.

Sneaking in was easy. Alex had learned how to walk all but silently when he was a kid, when he and Ian would play heist. By the time he was 10, Alex could almost always steal whatever Ian had hidden, sometimes right from under his nose.

The inside of the warehouse was dark, lit only by a few broken windows that allowed the street lights to spill in, and a few forgotten work lamps. But it was enough to see by. Alex crept along one wall until he heard footsteps and ducked behind a forgotten stack of pallets. His hand caught on a large splinter and he sucked on his palm to staunch the bleeding.

The source of the footsteps rounded a corner and came into Alex’s view. It was Ian and another man. And they were carrying *guns*. Ian didn’t own a gun. This was London, not New York.

And yet, here his uncle was, walking in a dark warehouse, holding a gun. He and the other man scanned the room, and Alex watched through the slats of the palettes. They were cautious yet composed, moving with a practiced ease that spoke to having done this before.

Alex held his breath. What was going on? Ian was a banker, not a criminal. Why was he prowling around like an armed cat burglar?

Finally, Ian broke the silence. “Something doesn’t feel right, Martin.”

“I agree,” his companion, Martin, said. And so did Alex.

They stalked forward, Martin now holding his gun at the ready. If they went only a few steps further, they’d pass Alex’s hiding place. Normally he was only afraid of a stern word or being grounded if Ian caught him eavesdropping. But now he didn’t know what either of the armed men would do.

“Ian,” a new voice called, and Ian and Martin whipped around. They pointed their guns at the newcomer and Alex’s heart leapt to his throat. The man was short and dark, with prominent bags under his eyes. The two guns pointed at him didn’t phase him, it was like he didn’t even notice them.

“Yassen,” Ian greeted, not sounding pleased to see the man. Alex’s eyes were wide as he watched the newcomer, Yassen, stop a few paces from his uncle. “How was New York?”

This wasn’t happening. Ian was boring. He wasn’t the kind of person who had guns. And he certainly wasn’t the kind of person who carried on conversations while pointing them at people.

“I didn’t see much of it,” Yassen admitted with an air of nonchalance. “Mainly the inside of an elevator shaft.”

“And Serenkov?” Ian asked. He was focused and calm, hands not shaking.

“Serenkov?” Yassen shrugged. “Wasn’t me. Someone else.”

There was a pregnant pause before Ian lifted his gaze above his gun and asked, “Where do we go from here, Yas?”

“Well,” Yassen drawled regretfully. “I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere.”

Martin crept up behind Ian and pressed the muzzle of his gun to his head.

Alex had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep himself quiet. *No.* This Martin guy, he was Ian’s friend. They’d driven here together. And whoever Yassen was, Ian knew him well enough for nicknames like ‘Yas’. Ian would be fine. He’d walk out of here and go home and ground Alex until college.

“Drop the gun,” Martin ordered. 

Ian’s gentle humor fell away to a gutted expression. He’d been betrayed.

“Martin,” He said mournfully. His gun didn’t move. “You have no idea who you’re working for.”

“I know what I’m being paid.”

“You really think you’re going to be around long enough to enjoy it, do you?”

No. No one would pay one of Ian’s friends to hold a gun to his head. It wasn’t within the realm of possibility.

“Drop. The gun.” Martin ordered again.

For another moment, Ian held steady. But then he lowered his gun and dropped it with a clatter.

“Who else have you told about this?” Yassen asked, and Alex fiercely ignored the implications of that statement.

“No one,” Martin insisted, still holding his gun on Ian. “He was just running down a hunch, that’s all. No one knows.”

Told about what? Why were they doing this?

Yassen nodded approvingly. “And this meeting?”

“I hid it in the Varna files, like you asked.”

Yassen’s gun clicked as he checked the magazine and slide, and Alex started to shake. He had to do something. Anything.

“I’m sorry, Ian,” Yassen said sorrowfully. “I really am.”

A small ghost of a smile played across Ian’s face. “So am I.”

**BANG BANG**

Two gunshots tore through the warehouse, and Ian fell to the ground.  
Alex couldn’t suppress his cry of horror and pain at the first shot, but by some grace, the sound of the second covered it. He pressed his hand against his mouth until his lips went numb, agonized with the effort to stay quiet as he stared at his uncle’s prone form in horror. He couldn’t make a sound. If they heard him, they’d kill him too.

Martin slowly lowered his gun, and Yassen stepped closer to Ian.

**BANG**

This time Alex’s cry of horror echoed through the warehouse, undisguised by gunfire. Martin spun around wildly, looking for the source of the noise, while Yassen turned and pointed his gun at Alex’s hiding spot.

Terror surged through him and locked his limbs. He’d been found.

“Who is there?” Yassen asked calmly. 

Alex didn’t dare breathe. Maybe they’d think it was an echo if he stayed silent.

“Come out, before I have to drag you,” Yassen ordered. Still Alex didn’t move, clenching his eyes shut like this could just go away. “Do not make me ask again.”

Slowly, Alex stood from behind the palette. Hot tears rolled down his face as he stared at the gun in Yassen’s hands. Ian was still on the floor between them. His chest wasn’t moving. He was- he couldn’t be-

Martin’s eyes widened. “Shit. That’s Ian’s kid.”

Yassen frowned and ever so slightly tilted his head. “His son?”

“No,” Martin said with a shake of his head. His eyes were wide with panic. “His nephew.”

Something on Yassen’s face changed. It wasn’t softer, but it was different.

Alex looked down at Ian and felt his throat close up. Ian’s face was pale and waxen. “You killed him,” he whispered, choking on a sob. They killed Ian. They killed his uncle.

“Shit,” Martin said again. He was antsy and drawn, and jittered like he was jonesing. “He’s a witness. We weren’t- Damn it, we weren’t supposed to have to kill a kid!”

“No,” Alex said hoarsely, staring at Martin in horror. “Please.” They’d killed Ian, and now they were going to kill him.

Yassen closed his eyes for an exasperated moment and beckoned to Alex. “Come here.”

Alex shook his head mutely. He had to do something. Get away, stop them, something.

“Now,” Yassen said sharply. He jerked his gun pointedly. “Or I will shoot you where you stand.”

Shaking like a foal, Alex stepped out from behind the pallet. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He took a few leaden steps towards the two armed murderers, but stopped in front of Ian’s body.

Red soaked Ian’s dark shirt, and Alex fell to his knees beside him. “Ian,” he said brokenly, too caught up in grief to pay Yassen’s threats any mind. Ian was bleeding. He needed help. He needed a hospital and first aid and- 

Alex pressed his hands to Ian’s chest, putting pressure on the largest circle of blood. “No, no,” he begged through tears. “Ian, please.” He wasn’t dead, he was just hurt. He’d be okay, the bleeding had stopped, the dark circles weren’t growing.

“They say never to work with children,” Yassen griped.

“What are we going to-”

Another question cut off Martin’s question, and Alex cried out and hunched over Ian. Dark blood soaked into his scarlet jacket.

Martin fell to the floor with a grunt, holding his arm in agony as Yassen approached him. “Alex was never here. When he is reported missing, you will know nothing of it.”

Gasping in pain, Martin nodded frantically. 

*When he is reported missing.*

“Come here,” Yassen ordered again, and Alex shook his head. Sobbing, he clung to Ian’s body desperately. He couldn’t leave him, and he couldn’t go with Yassen. He couldn’t.

Losing his patience, Yassen closed the gap between them and grabbed Alex by the arm. He pulled Alex away, ignoring his shock-weakened attempts to hold on to Ian for dear life.

“No!” Alex screamed, thrashing as he was pulled to his feet. “Let me go!”

“Come,” Yassen ordered. He paid the boy’s flailing no mind as he dragged him past Wilby.

“Please!” Alex begged, clawing at Yassen’s hand. Martin met his terror-wild eyes for only a moment before turning his head away. The injured man looked sick. 

Alex screamed and kicked as Yassen dragged him away, pleading for his life. “I won’t tell anybody, I swear!”

“Hush,” Yassen said as they got to the door.

“No, please!” 

* * *

The party raged on at Ayisha’s house, but Tom wasn’t having fun. A group of teenagers bumbled past him, one sloshing the shitmix cocktail dangerously close to his shoes. He just looked out the window again, hoping to see a bike come around the corner.

“Tom?”

He turned and saw Siddarth, from English, who was well on his way past tipsy and heading into drunk. “You alright, mate?”

Tom shrugged. “Just waiting on someone. You got the time?”

Siddarth pulled his phone out and told him. Tom had been waiting for an hour and a half.

“Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “I guess he’s not coming.”

Clapping him on the shoulder, Siddarth said, “We all get stood up. You’ll be alright.”

“That’s not what I-” He looked out the window again. No one. Alex must have been caught and was probably at home being read the riot act. Oh well, Tom would chew him out when he saw him tomorrow. “See you Monday, I’ll just go home then.”

* * *

“No! No!” Alex shouted. He’d gone boneless as Yassen pulled him away, not making it easy on the murderer. But the man had only kept dragging him along at a swift place. “Help!” he screamed into the empty parking lot. “Help!”

When they got to one of only two vehicles in the lot--the other was Ian’s--Yassen shoved him up against the side of the dark four-by-four. He grabbed him by the chin and demanded, “How did you get here?”

“Let me go,” Alex implored. His thoughts were still a mess of panic. “Please, you don’t have to kill me. Plea-”

The back of his head exploded in pain as Yassen bounced it off the car behind him, cutting off his pleading.

“Look at me,” the man demanded, and Alex trembled, meeting his stony eyes. “How did you get here?”

Between gasps, Alex answered, “I-I followed Ian. On my bike.”

“Where is your bike?”

“Behind the building.” Oh god, he was getting rid of the evidence that he’d been there. For whatever reason, Yassen could leave Ian’s body to be found, but not Alex’s.

Yassen was terrifyingly focused as he pinned Alex’s chest with one arm. “Did you tell anyone where you were going?”

Tom. He’d go after Tom. “I won’t tell anybody what I saw. I swear-”

Yassen raised the hand with the gun to hit him again, and Alex flinched away. “No!” He shouted in answer, ducking his head to avoid another blow. “I mean. My mum. My mum knows where I am. I told her before I Ieft. If I don’t come home, she’ll have half of Scotland Yard looking for you.”

“Do not lie to me,” Yassen warned, and Alex swallowed.

“I’m- I’m not lying.” Oh, please let him believe him.

Yassen stared at him for a long moment before asking, “What was your father’s name?”

“What?” Alex asked. Confusion temporarily broke his panic.

“What,” Yassen repeated, slowly and clearly. “Was your father’s name?”

Alex worked some spit back into his dry mouth and stuttered out, “J-John. John Rider.”

Yassen nodded in approval and said, “Your mother is not looking for you.”

“Who _are_ you?” Alex pleaded hopelessly. How would his father’s name tell him that? “What do you want?”

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back,” Yassen ordered, pointing the gun at his face again and taking a step back.

Trembling, Alex complied. “Why are you doing this?” He begged as Yassen wound tight cord around his wrists. He leaned his forehead against the window and tried not to break into a fresh round of terrified sobs as he was restrained. The ropes hurt when he pulled at them and not being able to move only made the horror more overwhelming.

Ian was dead, and his murderer was tying Alex up.

A cloth was forced into his mouth, and he gagged around the choking cotton. He yanked his head to the side, but he couldn’t stop another cloth being tied around his head, holding the first in place. He shouted around the gag, but no words came through. Yassen tied a third cloth around his eyes, and Alex couldn’t help the fresh tears as the world went dark.

Yassen spun him back around. “If you cooperate, I won’t have to kill you. Understand?”

Alex sobbed and nodded, feeling choked by the gag. He heard the car door open, and then Yassen guided him up into the vehicle. When Yassen reached across to buckle him in, he flinched back against the seat. But the man just finished his task and slammed the door shut. A minute later, the boot opened and then closed, and then the vehicle sank lower as Yassen climbed in.

The car started, and the world lurched into motion. What was happening? Where was he being taken? What would Yassen do to him? Why had he killed Ian? These questions and the sight of Ian’s body swirled in his head, and he was utterly helpless to do anything about them. 

Yassen must have collected his bike. He’d gotten rid of the evidence that Alex had been there. The implications of that sent a wave of terror through him, and he imagined what Ian must have felt when the bullets tore through him. Would it hurt when Yassen shot Alex? Would he die instantly, or struggle and suffer?

Imagining his own imminent death was too much, and Alex almost doubled over as his desperate tears began anew. Yassen had killed Ian and was going to kill him too.

Trapped in the dark and his terror, he didn’t know how long passed before his violent, heaving sobs wore him into an exhausted slumber.

* * *

Jack woke up confused. Then the doorbell rang again. She sat up and squinted at her phone, seeing that it was two in the morning. The bell rang yet again. Who was this insistent at two in the bloody morning?

Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she pulled her slippers on and then padded down the stairs. When she opened the door, her stomach dropped. It was two police officers.

“Are you Jacqueline Starbright, Ian Rider’s housekeeper?” One of them, a tall south asian woman, asked.

Jack nodded slowly. “I am. What’s this about?”

“May we come in?” The officer, her name badge read Officer R. Singh, asked gently. The kind tone only made Jack more certain that something terrible had happened. 

“Yeah,” Jack said slowly. She stepped aside and the two officers came in. “The sitting room’s just through here.”

Once in the sitting room, Jack sat across from the officers. “What happened?” she asked.

The other officer, a stout blonde man whose badge read Officer Cooper, said, “I’m terribly sorry to tell you, but Ian Rider died in a car crash earlier tonight.”

Jack’s eyes widened, and she sat back. It couldn’t be. “Ian’s dead?”

Officer Singh nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry, he is.”

“I have- I have to tell Alex. He’s asleep upstairs,” Jack explained as she stood shakily.

“It’s probably best he comes down and talk to us,” Officer Singh said with a tight smile. “No doubt he’ll have questions.”

Jack nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, he will.” What would she even say? How do you tell a teenager that his only remaining family was dead? 

The officers waited in the sitting room while she went upstairs. She knocked on Alex’s door, but didn’t get an answer. “Alex?” she called. When he still didn’t wake up, she knocked again and opened the door. 

Alex’s room was a disaster zone, as usual, but his bed was empty. Jack’s heart pounded as she took in the empty room. Where was he? In a tizzy, she strode to the window and checked it. There, like every other time Alex had snuck out, the window was cracked just enough for him to slip his fingers back under and reopen it.

_The party._

She called Alex’s phone. It rang, and Jack’s chest tightened with each moment it wasn’t answered. Would she tell him over the phone? Or just tell him to come home? She didn’t know what to do. 

His phone went to voicemail, and Jack dialed again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Why wasn’t he picking up? Even if he’d snuck out, Alex always picked up after multiple calls. 

Jack called one more time, and again the phone rang to voicemail. Her hands shook as she fired off several frantic texts demanding his location. Finally, she went back downstairs.

The officers stood when they saw her shaken expression. “Is everything alright?” Officer Singh asked.

“Alex isn’t in his room,” Jack explained, panic steadily growing. “He uh, he’s grounded and there was this party. I think he snuck out, but he won’t pick up his phone. He always picks up his phone.”

Officers Singh and Cooper shared a glance.

“He’s probably with his friend Tom-” she stopped midway through her contacts. Tom’s phone was with Ian. Instead, she called his mother.

Mrs. Harris answered on the last ring, and was none too happy about being woken, but she put Tom on the line.

“Tom, where’s Alex?” she demanded.

Tom’s voice was still thick with sleep as he asked, “What?”

“Where’s Alex?” she repeated. “I know he snuck out with you and he’s not answering his phone.”

“I thought he went home,” Tom said, sounding more awake now. “Figured Ian caught him and dragged him back his ear. Why?”

Jack’s heart stopped. “What do you mean you thought Ian caught him?”

“We uh,” Tom paused and yawned. “We were going to Ayisha’s, and we saw Ian’s car. Alex followed it and said he would meet me at the party. When he didn’t show, I assumed Ian caught him following.”

“Tom,” Jack said, feeling her panic crest. “Ian’s dead.”

“What?!” Tom was panicked too. “Oh my god. Alex- He- Oh my god.” It sounded like Tom was holding back tears. “There was another man in Ian’s car. If Ian is dead, you don’t think-”

“I don’t know,” Jack said helplessly. The officers were watching her and frowning, so she said, “Tom, I’m going to call you back. I’m sure- I’m sure he’s fine.”

She hung up and returned to the officers. “Alex left his friend to go follow Ian. And now he’s- Oh my god.” Jack covered her mouth, trying not to sob.

“It was a car crash,” Officer Singh said gently, putting a hand on her arm. “There wasn’t anyone else around. There’s no reason to think Alex was involved or hurt.”

Jack nodded, but it didn’t help. Ian was dead and Alex was missing after following him.

“You can make a missing person’s report,” Singh offered. “You should have his friend Tom meet us at the police station.” 

“Okay,” Jack agreed with a shaky nod. A missing person’s report, she couldn’t believe it.

_Where was Alex?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to everyone who gave me torture ideas and then told me not to use them when I told them what this story's about. I'm still using them.
> 
> Drop a review below!


	2. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2!!!!! Chapter 3 should also be up today, and everything else will have to come after February.

When Alex woke up, he wasn’t sure if his eyes were open. The world was still pitch black. But something pressed against his eyelashes when he blinked, and he realized that he was blindfolded. He tried to move, but painful ropes held him in place and sent panic through him.

Waves of memory crashed into him and he struggled in a blind panic. His ankles were bound, as were his wrists, which he couldn’t pull more than four inches away from his back. After a minute of painful, fruitless struggling, he panted and lay still. 

The side of his face was pressed into something soft, and the coarse fabric felt like upholstery. With difficulty, he stilled his frantic breathing and listened. He couldn’t hear much, only the sound of his own breathing and the faint gurgling of a radiator. The ever-present hum of traffic was gone, and most importantly, he couldn’t hear any other people. He was alone.

Focusing on a task helped calm his panic, and he shifted his limbs to get a sense of his bindings. Rope or cord, not chains. Around his ankles and wrists, and a loop around his waist that attached to his wrists, holding them against his back. There was no give in any of the ropes, and none of Alex’s blind fumbling let him reach the knots securing his wrists. But when he leaned back as far as his spine would allow, he could just barely reach the knots on his ankles.

His torso strained as he contorted himself, but he was able to pick at them with his nails. The knots were tight and well done, and he wasn’t making progress. But he had to keep trying. If he could get out before Yassen came back, then he wouldn’t-- No. Thinking of what could happen would only make him panic again.

When his fingers slipped off the knot for the third time, he huffed out a frustrated breath around his gag. He doubled down his efforts and finally felt one part of the knot start to slip free. Spirits renewed, he continued worrying at the rope.

He was so engrossed in untying himself that he didn’t notice the sound of keys in the door until the second lock. The grind of metal on metal made him freeze. Yassen was back.

Cold air blew into the room and buttons beeped as they were pressed, and Alex froze. He was still bent backwards, hands on the knots.

“Trying to escape?” Yassen’s velveteen voice asked. 

Alex swallowed. He slowly shook his head, but it was clear.

“Sit up,” Yassen ordered, and Alex didn’t move. But then a hand was on his shoulder pulling him upright, and he flinched. The blindfold was ripped off, and Alex blinked at the sudden light as he took in his surroundings.

He was in a small house or flat, with the living room, dining room, and kitchen all in the same open space. Interior doors led off in front of him, and the entrance, a door with multiple locks and a keypad, was beside the couch he sat on. 

Yassen sat on the coffee table in front of him, and Alex did his best not to shake. Looking at him was like looking at a shark. Danger radiated off him despite his slow, calm movements, and his eyes were utterly flat and emotionless.

“I’m going to ask you some questions,” Yassen explained, unmoved by Alex’s fear. “If you lie, I’ll hurt you. Understand?”

Huffing out a terrified breath, Alex nodded. He didn’t know anything worth asking, What if he didn’t believe him? He cringed as Yassen pulled the gag from his mouth and said, “Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone what I saw. I swear.”

“Your name is Alex Rider, correct?”

Alex quailed. How did he know his name? But he nodded.

“Your parents were John and Helen Rider?”

“How do you know my mum’s name?” Alex asked. Had this man been stalking them before he killed Ian?

Yassen didn’t answer his question, only asking another of his own. “Why did you follow your uncle to the warehouse?”

Alex wavered, unsure whether to answer.

“This will be much less painful if you cooperate.” Yassen said it calmly, but the threat was undisguised.

Letting out a shaky breath, Alex said, “He said he was going to work. But I saw his car on the wrong side of town with someone else in the passenger seat. So I followed him.”

“On a bike?”

Alex swallowed and pulled at the ropes on his wrists again. He felt like a bug on a pinboard under Yassen’s gaze. “My friend’s phone was in the glovebox. I tracked it and caught back up after I lost his car.”

Yassen nodded, almost looking appreciative. 

It was probably a bad idea, but Alex could never hold his tongue even when his mind wasn’t muddled with trauma and fear. “Why did you kill him?” he asked, voice breaking at the end.

For a long moment, Yassen looked him in the eye. Alex tugged fruitlessly at the ropes, but didn’t break eye contact. He needed to know.

“Why do you think I did?”

Was this a test? Would this decide if he got to go home after this? But Alex shifted in his seat as he put the pieces together. “I think someone paid you to. And either you or whoever hired you paid Martin to help.”

And yes, Yassen definitely looked impressed. He didn’t want to impress a murderer.

Yassen didn’t confirm or deny his guess. Instead, he asked, “Who did your uncle work for?”

*Did.* The past tense struck Alex’s heart and he only barely managed to say, “A bank. Royal and something?”

In a flash, Yassen slapped him across the face.

Stinging pain bloomed on Alex’s cheek as his head rocked to the side. With his hands behind his back, he almost tipped over as he lost his balance. Once he recovered, he stared back at Yassen, who hadn’t even moved from his perch on the table.

“I said I would hurt you if you lied.”

“I’m not lying!” Alex cried. “Ian’s a banker. He does overseas finance!”

“Who did your uncle work for?” Yassen asked again, sterner this time.

“A bank,” Alex insisted, cringing and expecting another blow. “He works for Royal and General Bank. Mayb- Maybe he has another job? Was he involved in drugs or something? Is that why someone hired you to kill him?” Bankers didn’t bring guns into warehouses.

When Yassen shifted forward, Alex shouted, “I don’t know what you want me to say! He told me that he’s a banker! He didn’t talk about work.” 

Yassen looked at him for a long moment. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?” Alex demanded. What would he do if he kept asking questions that Alex couldn’t answer correctly?

“Your uncle wasn’t a banker,” Yassen explained coldly. “He was an agent of the Special Intelligence Service.”

Alex stared at him blankly. “What? Like MI6?”

“Yes, like MI6,” Yassen agreed. 

Dumbstruck, Alex just shook his head. Ian was *boring*. He didn’t even drive over the speed limit.

“Ian Rider was an MI6 agent. Not their best, but competent,” Yassen explained. 

It didn’t make sense, and yet it did. Bankers didn’t meet in shady warehouses and get betrayed by their coworkers. “No,” Alex whispered, shaking his head again.

“Why were you in Ankara last July?”

Alex flinched back against the couch. How did he know that? He couldn’t have known that. “What?”

“Why were you in Ankara, Turkey last July?” Yassen asked again. He wasn’t pleased to have to repeat himself.

Alex was at a loss. “I- We were on vacation. Ian had to work for a couple days but we were tourists the rest of the time. How do you know that we were there?!”

“There was an assassination attempt against the president outside of the british embassy,” Yassen said, and Alex remembered that. 

Flying out of the country had been a nightmare after a state vehicle had exploded outside of the embassy. The news had said that it was the President’s car, but that british officers had saved him and kept him out of the blast. Only a passerby had been killed.

“Ian was working and you spent the day at the hotel,” Yassen said, again unsettling Alex with how much he knew. How? “He wasn’t banking, he was investigating the assassin sent after the Turkish President.”

That trip had sucked. Alex had flown in with Ian and traipsed around a few tourist sites the first day, but then Ian had had to work more than he expected, leaving Alex pinned up the hotel. At least it had a nice pool.

And then their trip had ended early after the bombing and Ian had worked overtime for the next week at the bank. He’d blamed it on a sudden change in Turkey’s foreign finance policies. 

“That’s imp-”

Yassen continued. “He had a black eye. How did he get it?”

How did Yassen know this? Travel itineraries were one thing, but the bruises that Ian had? “He, uh, got mugged I’m pretty sure. You know, rich American banker in a foreign city.”

“I gave it to him,” Yassen admitted, and Alex shook his head. “I was sent to kill the President in front of your embassy to damage Turkey and Britain's relations. Ian saw me outside the embassy and followed me. We fought.”

Alex would have scoffed at the idea of Ian fighting anyone, but he had always insisted on Alex taking Krav Maga classes, and had been really good at helping him practice for his belt exams. All of what Yassen said made too much sense. The Ankara trip had been confused and annoying, and none of Ian’s answers had satisfied him. But that doesn't mean he was a spy!

“You tried a Krav Maga move on me,” Yassen said, again shifting the conversation faster than Alex’s swirling mind. “You were in shock and it didn’t work, but the foundations were there. I’m not sure you even knew you were trying it.”

And Alex hadn’t been aware. Fat load of good it did him. 

“How long have you been taking combat classes?”

“Uh,” He was so lost. “Since I was eight. Sev-seven years?”

Yassen nodded appreciatively. “Ian trained you well. What else did he teach you?”

Everything Alex knew? But he couldn’t hesitate too long, or Yassen would hit him again. “Um. Rock climbing? Scuba? Camping? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Useful skills,” Yassen said, looking Alex over. “He trained you to be an agent one day.”

“No he didn’t!” Alex shouted, leaning forward and straining against his bonds. This was a bridge too far. “He wasn't a spy! He was a banker and a good man. And you killed him! You don’t get to say a damn thing about him!”

“I am only telling you the truth,” Yassen said, unimpressed with his outburst. “Ian Rider was an MI6 agent that I was sent to kill. I have run into him in my work many times, and on two of those occasions, he was using you to secure his cover identity.”

“No,” Alex said again. If that was true, then Ian would have lied to him his whole life. He would have endangered him and set him up for a career that Alex didn’t choose. And just how much sense it made hurt too much.

“Yes,” Yassen said. He stood, ending the conversation before Alex could find some way to prove him wrong. There had to be a way. “I have to leave again. You’ll be in the other room.”

That would mean a chance to escape! Alex held onto that hope to keep himself from having a breakdown.

Yassen grabbed Alex by the underarm and hauled him off the couch, uncaring that he couldn’t support his weight with how he was bound. Alex thrashed against him, out of principal more than any hope, as he dragged him to one of the doors off the side of the room.

When Yassen pushed the door open, Alex saw the room on the other side. It was a plain, thinly carpeted room with only a bed, not even a window or closet.

“Hey!” Alex protested as Yassen threw him onto the bed. The navy sheets and bedspread were musty and clearly hadn’t been changed in a long time, but there were no obvious stains or foul smells.

“Sleep. I will return before morning,” Yassen said, and then left, closing and locking the door behind him.

Alex glared at the ceiling as he pulled at the bonds on his wrists again. Finally alone again, he tried to untie the ropes again. He didn’t know how long he tried, but it was fruitless. Eventually he gave up and fell asleep with the knowledge that his uncle had lied to him.

* * *

Tulip Jones looked down at her desk and sighed. She dropped her head into her hands for only a moment before steeling herself.

One of her agents was dead, and another had been shot. And they had no bloody clue who did it. Forensics was working, trying to piece together anything they could from the warehouse, but whoever it was had been a professional. 

Wilby had given his statement after he’d come out of surgery. Luckily the damage hadn’t been severe and he would, in time, make a full recovery. But all Wilby knew was that they’d been ambushed, and it had been a trap. Ian had taken three bullets center mass, and Wilby had skated by with only a shot to the shoulder. She’d called him lucky. A guardian angel was more like it.

“Jones,” a voice said, and she looked up. Smithers was beside her desk with a worried expression.

“What is it?” She asked.

Smithers hesitated. It wasn’t good. “I set up a filter to look for any mentions of Ian Rider in the local police, in case someone was looking further into this than they should. And I got a ping.”

Great. Exactly what they needed. A meddlesome beat cop. “Lovely. Have their superior officer remind them how much they value their job.”

“No, it’s not that,” Smithers said. “It was a missing person’s report. Alex Rider, Ian’s nephew, was entered into the missing person’s database thirty minutes ago.”

“What?” Jones demanded.

Smithers handed her a folder. “Here’s the report. It seems he had snuck out with a friend when he noticed Ian and another man, presumably Wilby. He left his friend to go follow Ian, and he hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”

Well, that was an unexpected development. “Did Wilby mention seeing him? Has anyone asked him about this yet?”

“No,” Smithers said with a shake of his head. “Not as far as I’m aware.”

“Don’t mention it to Wilby or anyone else. I want to ask him about it,” Jones ordered. “And, Derek, thank you.”

“Of course,” Smithers said with a tight smile.

He went back to his office, and Jones was left to stew. Alex Rider was missing. She was familiar with the boy, Ian was quite the proud papa. He was utterly professional in the office, except for when he would brag about whatever martial arts contest Alex had won. Most of his leave requests coincided with school holidays, where he would Alex scuba diving or free climbing, or on immersion tours of Europe. Privately, Jones had noticed how useful all of the skills Ian instilled in his nephew were, but she hadn’t dared to make assumptions or accusations.

And the question remained, did Alex’s disappearance have anything to with Ian’s death?

* * *

Alex woke up in the same small bedroom he’d fallen asleep in. Upon sitting up and rubbing a hand over his face, he realized that he’d been untied while he slept. His face was sticky still from dried tears and snot, and his mouth was dry. While he was relieved to be able to move, it meant both that Yassen had been in the room while he slept, and that the man was here. 

He hadn't had a chance to explore last night, but now he searched the room for escape routes. As he stood, he heard a loud clank of metal and froze. On the other side of the door he could hear the bizarrely normal sounds of pots and pans scraping on a stove. Was Yassen cooking? Did murderers need to eat? But it wasn’t a priority.

The room was small and sparsely furnished, with only a bed and no windows or decorations on the walls. Not even a closet or wardrobe, but there was a grocery bag full of cloth on the floor.

Alex looked down at his clothes and fought off a wave of nausea when he saw the dark blood caking his front and sleeves. Ian’s blood. He went to the bag and thankfully found a change of clothes inside. Pyjama pants and a long sleeved shirt. As much as he wanted to refuse anything Yassen gave him on principle, he needed to get Ian’s blood off of him before he clawed his skin off.

Once redressed, Alex set back on escape. The door was the only option, so Alex quietly padded over, his careful footsteps muffled by the worn carpet. He winced as he grabbed the doorknob, expecting something terrible to happen. But the knob turned, and he slowly pushed the door open.

It opened into the main living space he’d seen last night, and Alex could see Yassen in the kitchenette, stirring something in a frying pan. The door was maybe twenty feet away, across the living room. It was in plain view of the kitchen, but only if Yassen turned around. 

There was nothing else to do but go for it. Alex held his breath and crept silently towards the door, keeping an eye on Yassen. The man stayed focused on whatever was in front of him.

Each step was nerve wracking, but Alex took his time to ensure he was utterly silent. When Yassen reached for a pepper grinder, fear shot through him and he froze. But the man just went back to the stove and Alex continued. He was half way across the room, only ten blessed feet from freedom, when Yassen turned off the stove and grabbed the frying pan by the handle.

Alex bolted. He dashed the last few yards and grabbed the door handle. It was locked. He frantically scanned the door for the latch, but only found two key holes. Panic shot through him as he yanked on the door knob and slammed his fist into the wood. It didn’t budge. 

*The door wouldn’t open and he was trapped and-*

“Alex.”

He whipped around and pressed back against the door. He stared at Yassen with wide fearful eyes, expecting violent anger.

But instead his captor finished setting the frying pan on the island before turning calmly back to him. He nodded at Alex’s terrified posture and said, “That was your one. Next time you try to escape, there will be consequences.”

It was said matter of factly, but the words sent a chill down Alex’s spine. Consequences. He didn’t want to find out what a hitman considered an appropriate consequence.

Yassen turned away and dished eggs and sausage onto two plates. “Come eat.”

Yeah right. Alex didn’t move, just listened to his heart beat out of his ears.

After getting two glasses of water and a two pieces of toast, Yassen again turned to face Alex. His voice hardened as he ordered, “Now, Alexander.”

Alex winced. The only time he heard his full name was when he was in trouble, and only person who used it was- 

A sudden wave of grief crashed over him. Ian was dead. Even if Alex got out of this house alive, he’d never see him again. The man holding him here had shot his uncle dead in a warehouse, and the awfulness overwhelmed him. He pressed his hands to his eyes and sank down to the carpet. Ian was dead, and Alex would be joining him soon.

The next thing Alex knew, there was a firm hand on his arm. He flinched as Yassen pulled his hand from his face and yanked him to his feet.

“I don’t like to repeat myself,” Yassen said as he pulled Alex to the kitchen, who stumbled on leaden feet after him. He deposited the boy on a kitchen stool and went around to the other side.

Alex leaned back when Yassen let go of him, and focused on his plate to avoid looking at the man. Scrambled eggs, sausage, and toast. Not just a normal breakfast, but a nice breakfast. His empty stomach churned, but he couldn’t fathom taking a bite. 

Yassen’s knife and fork ground against his plate as Alex picked up his fork and poked a sausage limply. He was supposed to sit here and eat with the man who’d abducted him? Who’d orphaned him? After an agonizing minute he looked up and saw Yassen looking at him in mild interest.

Alex swallowed, feeling like a bug on a pinboard. He worked spit back into his mouth and asked, “Why am I here?”

No answer. Yassen just kept staring at him as he took a bite of sausage.

“Well?” Alex demanded, mouth working faster than his sense. “I deserve to know why you dragged me here!”

Another bite, this time of eggs. Yassen swallowed and nodded contemplatively before finally addressing him. “I have not decided what to do with you.”

The reminder that Yassen could kill him at any moment made Alex’s chest tighten.

“Why not just kill me?” He asked bleakly. It seemed almost fitting to wipe out in the entire Rider line in one horrible night.

Now Yassen’s gaze was contemplative. After another long moment he said, “You look so much like your father.”

Alex twitched backwards. He looked like his father? “How do you know what my dad looked like?” Ian had called him Yas. They knew each other, but how far back did that go?

Yassen smiled. It wasn’t something cruel or frightening, just the smile of a fond memory. “Your father and I knew each other quite well. In fact, I was closer to him than any other man before his death.”

Alex’s confusion, shock, and disbelief must have shown on his face, because Yassen chuckled and said, “Your poker face... not so good as your father’s.”

“How did you know him?” Alex asked. That couldn’t be true, could it? Why would his father be so close with such a monster?

“He taught me how to kill,” Yassen admitted. Plainly and freely. 

To kill? Alex stared, open mouthed, and frowned. What? It couldn’t be true, and there was no way he would take his kidnapper’s word at face value.

“You do not have to believe me.” Yassen polished off the last of his food. “I spared you out of some lingering affection for your father, Time will tell if I made the right choice.”

Yassen stood and took his dishes to the sink, leaving Alex alone at the island to turn his words over and over in his crowded head.

* * *

“Martin,” Mrs. Jones said gently, and the agent in question looked up from his desk. “How’s the arm?”

“As well as can be,” Wilby said with a one armed shrug. “The docs have the pain pretty well controlled.”

Jones nodded. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Wilby had done everything he should have. He had called in for help, had debriefed as soon as he was out of the hospital, and had been working diligently to find Ian’s killer ever since. Even the hospital staff had noted how utterly distressed and disturbed he was by the events in the warehouse. Everything pointed to him being a good agent and good man.

“I want to be back in the field as soon as possible,” Wilby said. “Whoever did this- I can’t let them run free. I need to be doing everything I can.”

“Focus on healing,” Jones said. Then, seizing her chance, said, “There is one of the thing.”

“Anything.”

“Ian’s nephew, Alex,” Jones began, and watched his face for any change. All she saw was a surprised frown. “He’s missing.”

Wilby sat back, surprise plain against his face. Worry, too. “Since when? What happened?”

“Since last night. He snuck out for a party but never showed, and hasn’t been seen since,” Jones explained. Let the detail of where Alex had been going stay secret.

“Oh god,” Wilby said, moderately concerned.

“Ian was the last person to see him,” Jones explained. “And you were the last person to see Ian. Did he say anything about Alex? Did anything give you any clue where he might have gone?”

Frowning, Wilby slowly shook his head. Jones noticed that he was bouncing his heel. “No clue. Hopefully he’ll turn up. Probably just ran off.”

“Hopefully,” Jones agreed. She stood and smiled, “Don’t work too hard, Martin.”

She walked away, but paused after she turned the corner. Wilby thought he was alone, and only Jones saw the panic and nausea on his face.

* * *

Alex stared at his food. He’d believed Yassen last night. Had finally been convinced that Ian was an MI6 agent. It just made too much sense, and was perhaps the only way to explain what had happened at the warehouse last night. The warehouse. His chest tightened and he took an angry bite of a sausage to stop himself from crying again.

The food tasted like cardboard, but he forced himself to eat half of a sausage, the piece of toast, and to chug the glass of water. He was thirsty enough that he went to the sink to refill it. He could feel Yassen in the dining room behind him, but didn’t want to turn around. In his moments of humanity, such as while eating breakfast, Yassen was almost normal. But most of the time he was ruthless and terrifying. Alex didn’t know which one he’d find when he turned around. 

But finally he set the glass down by the sink and turned. Yassen was sitting at the dining room table looking intently at something on a laptop. He seemed utterly unconcerned by Alex’s presence and typed something with a frown. Alex watched him for a moment before leaving the kitchen and going to the living room. The dining room, living room, and kitchen weren’t divided by walls, only the furniture and different flooring demarcated them.

Alex sat on the couch and curled his bare feet up beneath himself. Yassen said he hadn’t killed him because he looked like his dad. Which when Alex thought back on the warehouse- when he thought back on the conversation that the two murderers had had- it made some sense. Yassen had heard he was Ian’s nephew and hadn’t killed him. And then he’d asked his father’s name and known that Alex didn’t have a mum waiting at home for him.

But his dad would never associate with someone like Yassen. With a murderer who would kill his brother. Alex didn’t know much of anything about his parents, Ian had never talked about them unless Alex pried. And now he would nev- No, Alex wasn’t going to cry again. He knew that his dad was named John and his mum named Helen. He’d seen a few photos of them. He knew his mum was a nurse and that his dad was in the paras, and that Ian said he was a good man. 

“Were you in the paras?”

Yassen looked up, surprised that Alex had spoken. But he didn’t look mad. “What?”

“You said my dad taught you to-” Alex cut himself off. He didn’t move from where he was curled up on the couch, but it was close enough to have a conversation. “Were you in the paras with him?”

This utterly amused Yassen, who closed his laptop and shook his head. “No, I was not in your military.”

“Then what did you mean when you said my dad taught you to kill?” Alex demanded. He put his feet down and sat up straighter. Yassen couldn’t just say that about his dad. It couldn’t be true.

“Precisely that,” Yassen explained. “My employers trained me to be an assassin, and but when I was young I was reluctant to take a life. Your father helped me over that hurdle.”

Alex shook his head. What bullshit. “Why would my dad help an assassin?”

“Because he was an assassin. Our employer’s best, in fact. A legend.”

“You’re a liar,” Alex shot back. This was a crazy murderer and kidnapper. He was just finding a way to wrap Alex into his delusions. 

Yassen shrugged. “Most in my field are. But I haven’t lied to you yet.” 

He opened his laptop again and began to type, and Alex took that to mean that he had been dismissed. But a few moments later, Yassen said, “Come here.”

Alex tensed and Yassen looked over at him and rolled his eyes. “Not for anything nefarious. Do you want to see photos of your father?”

Ian had only ever shown Alex three photos of John. One of him and Ian as teenagers, John’s military personnel photo, and one of John and Helen’s wedding photos. He’d also shown him a photo of Helen holding a small blonde baby, but Alex had never even seen one of him and his father together.

Alex nodded slowly and Yassen beckoned him over. He cautiously stood and approached Yassen, still halfway expecting to be struck. He stood tensely beside the man’s chair and Yassen angled the laptop towards him. It was some encrypted cloud storage site, and Yassen had several scanned and uploaded photos.

The first that Yassen clicked on was a surveillance photo taken in some European city of a man walking down the street. A man who looked just like the photos Alex had seen of John, and so much like Alex himself.

“I knew him as Hunter,” Yassen, and his voice was distant and fond with memory. “It was his code name.” With a press of a key, another photo filled the screen. Another surveillance photo, this time of a much younger Yassen, maybe even in his teenage years, standing next to the blonde man. Both were holding rifles and looked serious. Another photo, this one of Hunter and Yassen again, but this time they were smiling. They looked like friends.

The next photo was the same military ID photo that Alex had seen in Ian’s old photo album. John Rider’s Air Force photo. And Alex had to admit that yes, Hunter was his father. But he couldn’t be an assassin. Ian said he was a good man. (But Ian had also said that he was a banker). Alex saw more photos of John, many with Yassen as well. Most were surveillance photos, but some were posed and purposeful. He couldn’t deny that yes, Yassen had known his father, and had probably been close.

They got to the end of the photos and Yassen turned to Alex, who was trying to reckon his excitement at seeing more photos of his dad with the sick feeling that Yassen’s words gave him. 

“My dad wasn’t a murderer,” he whispered. “He was a good man.”

Yassen considered him for a long time. “Could he have been both?”


	3. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An interlude to give Alex a chance to breathe

Alex pressed his face into the couch cushions and clenched his fists beside his head. How could his dad have trained Ian’s killer? How could his dad have been a killer? Is that why Ian never told him about him?

It was so fucked that the man who kidnapped him was telling him more about his family than his uncle ever had. Did Ian not trust him? He’d never been overly affectionate, but he’d thought that he loved him. You didn’t lie to the people you love.

“Alex.”

Alex pulled his face up and looked nervously at Yassen. It was killer Yassen again, not human Yassen. He was wearing his coat and holding rope in his hands. 

“I am leaving, I’m going to restrain you again,” he said coldly.

“The door’s locked, I can’t leave,” Alex protested. Being tied up made him feel panicked and even more trapped than he already was.

Yassen held up the rope. “Don’t argue.”

Alex opened his mouth to say something more, but the hard look Yassen gave him made him change his mind. He sat up and stared angrily at the wall while Yassen stooped and tied his ankles together. Once he was done, Alex tried to pull free of them just to be petty. It didn’t work. On Yassen’s instruction, he turned and let Yassen tie his hands behind his back and to a rope around his waist.

Anger and humiliation burned in his chest as he let himself be restrained. But he was already dealing with killer Yassen, he didn’t want to provoke him over a futile fight. “Are you going to go kill someone?” 

Yassen tugged on the rope around his waist to check it. “Not today.”

Alex sucked in a breath at the casualness. Not today, but maybe tomorrow. A raincheck, maybe. He pulled at the ropes on his wrists and leaned back against the sofa. “How long am I going to be stuck like this?”

“I’m not certain,” Yassen said as he stood. He went over to the door and used two separate keys to open the locks, then covered the keypad with his hand as he keyed in a code. A light turned green, and Yassen opened the door and left.

Alex huffed out a breath and tried to get comfortable. Yassen would be back, and he didn’t know if he was afraid of that or hoping for it.

\------

Eventually Yassen returned. Killer Yassen untied Alex and let him finally run to the bathroom and relieve his bladder. When Alex returned, human Yassen was standing at the island and chopping onions. He wasn’t crying, because of course not.

“Come here,” Yassen said, and Alex walked stiffly over.

He hovered a few feet away at the edge of the kitchen, and Yassen nodded at the counter behind him. “I trust you can brown beef?”

Alex faltered. “You want me to help cook?”

“Yes,” Yassen said affably as he used the knife to tilt the chopped open into a bowl.

“I don’t know how,” Alex confessed. Neither Ian nor Jack had ever taught him anything beyond boiling water.

Yassen shook his head and muttered something in Russian. “Very well. I will teach you.”

And wasn’t that just a perfect addition to the bizarro world that was the last two days? The contract killer who had killed his uncle and abducted him was going to teach him to cook.

“I will do the cutting, you will mind the stove,” Yassen told him. Which, fair.

Alex walked into the kitchen behind him and looked at the beef, onions, and mushrooms. “What are you making?”

“Govjadina po-stroganovski,” Yassen answered.

“Huh?”

“Beef stroganoff,” Yassen translated with half a smile. “Easy to learn. What is it you english speakers say? A trained monkey could do it?”

“Well the monkey got some training at least,” Alex muttered.

“Then stop complaining and be trained,” Yassen chided. “The mushrooms are cut, saute them with two tablespoons of butter.”

Alex looked at him blankly. “Saute? I’m guessing it doesn’t mean jump.”

“You speak French?” Yassen asked, and Alex nodded. “Well no, it does not. Cook them on medium until they are tender in the skillet, stirring frequently.”

They cooked side by side, Yassen preparing ingredients while Alex cooked them and stirred the pot. He learned to saute, to deglaze, to brown, and what onions should look like when they are done cooking. Yassen even explained the roux they formed around the beef and onions. 

Alex found himself forgetting that he was the prisoner of his uncle’s murderer. Yassen was a patient teacher and it was actually fun learning to make food.

“Now we stir in the mustard,” Yassen said. “There is technically a measurement, but it is something you measure with your heart.”

Alex frowned. “What?” 

“Just give the bottle a good squeeze,” Yassen instructed.

Uncertainly, Alex picked up the bottle of foreign brown mustard. “Really?” When Yassen nodded, he clenched his fists around the plastic bottle, and giant spurt of mustard shot into the pan and splashed onto the counter and their shirts.

Alex froze. He messed up. Swallowing down his fear, he looked nervously up at Yassen, who was staring open mouthed at the torrent of brown mustard.

But then Yassen laughed, and the tension broke. “Squeeze, not throttle.”

“S-sorry,” Alex said. He felt off balance, his fear of the man clashing with the man’s easy attitude. 

“It is fine,” Yassen assured him. “We can still save it.” He grabbed a spoon and scooped most of the mustard out of the pan. Then considered it for a moment and added a touch back in. He stirred the pot, then tasted it and nodded.

“Now we wait,” Yassen said, putting a lid on the pan and turning the heat to low.

Alex followed his lead and helped him clean up, not wanting another reminder of his tenuous position. They put the dishes in the sink and washed them side by side, Yassen washing and Alex drying.

“What was my dad like?” Alex hazarded as he dried a bowl. “Like, as a person.”

Yassen considered as he scrubbed the cutting board. “He was kind. Much kinder than anyone around him deserved.”

“Really?” Alex asked hopefully. Ian had never given him many specifics.

“Yes. I do not know how he did it, but he stayed kind,” Yassen said. “He was selfless, too.”

Alex frowned. That didn’t square with what Yassen had told him about his supposed job. “Selfless how?”

“He saved my life,” Yassen explained, and he again was distant with memory. “We were on an assignment-“ Alex flinched at that, and Yassen retraced his words. “We were working, and there was a black widow on my throat.”

“A black widow?” Alex asked breathlessly. He wasn’t arachnophobic, but that turned his stomach.

“Yes. Any loud noise would have startled it into biting me,” Yassen explained as he rinsed the cutting board. “But Hunter shot it off my neck.” He traced the thin white scar on his throat. “He saved my life, even after I failed him.”

“That’s- wow.” Alex said. He accepted the cutting board from Yassen and wiped it dry. It was a hell of a way to save a life. Ian had lied about a lot, but maybe it was true that his dad was a good man.

Yassen smiled faintly as he shut off the sink and turned to lean against the counter. “He was smart too. One of the smartest men I ever met, but didn’t flaunt it. He was shrewd, always had gears turning.”

Smart, kind, and selfless. Various people had told Alex that he was those things. Usually in the context of “too selfless for his own good” or “you’re so smart but you never use your head”. Had he gotten that from his dad?

All of the dishes were clean, and Yassen put them away.

Alex knew he’d hate the answer, but he had to ask. “Why did he-“

A shrill klaxon cut through the kitchen, and Yassen turned off his phone’s timer. “Later,” he said, and turned to the food. 

He pulled the pan off the heat and turned off the stove. “Get the smetana,” he ordered, and Alex brought the sour cream over. Yassen opened it and teased, “I will do this part. To prevent further explosions.” He spooned the thin sour cream into the skillet and stirred it in, turning the sauce rich and creamy.

“Come now,” he said as he grabbed the skillet with a rag. “You did well, let us enjoy the fruits of our labors.”

Answers would have to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I'm nice to Alex before I whump him. Drop a comment below if you please.


	4. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we got some whump!

Dinner was tense, but not nearly so much as breakfast had been. Alex was ravenous, not having eaten more than a few bites since dinner the day that Ian- since the day before. And the meal Alex had helped make was delicious. He scarfed down two helpings while Yassen took his time, savoring the food. That left him to sit and fidget with his sleeves, unsure if he was allowed to leave the table.

Eventually, Yassen finished eating and nodded at Alex. “Clear your plate.”

Relieved, Alex grabbed his plate and halfway ran to the sink. He set the plate down and let out a breath. At this rate, he’d be grey at fifteen from the stress of having to sit in Yassen’s presence. 

Yassen walked over with his plate, and Alex tensed. But the man just rinsed off his dishes and said, “You may watch television. The remote is in the cabinet.”

Alex nodded and fled from the kitchen.

The remote was indeed in the cabinet beneath the TV. It was an old, curved thing, but it turned on and connected when Alex pressed the remote. Somehow he doubted Yassen paid for a TV license. 

He sat back on the couch and flipped through the channels. None of the programs held his interest, and he had no real desire to watch anything, but it was a welcome distraction from the murderer in the room behind him. 

After the latter half of a medical drama ended, Alex flipped to a local news station. He saw with some interest that he was still in the London broadcasting range. He hugged a pillow to his chest while the familiar hosts pattered on about human interest pieces and football scores. The world still turned while Alex was missing and Ian was dead. 

Eventually, the nighttime hosts took over and discussed local crime stories. Would Ian’s death be mentioned? Several other murders were mentioned, but nothing about Ian. The final segment of the crime news was missing children. The hosts read descriptions and details over smiling photos of kids and teenagers.

And then, finally, Alex’s face filled the screen. It was a photo that Alex recognized from the fridge, one where he was smiling with Tom, but Tom had been cropped out. Jack must have reported him missing, and it hit him in the gut. What did she think happened?

The host read his piece. “Alexander ‘Alex’ Rider is missing following his guardian's death in an auto accident last night. Alex is fifteen years old and was last seen wearing-”

The rest of it was lost on him. Auto accident? Ian had been gunned down in a warehouse, not killed in a car crash. Why would the news say that? What had Wilby and Yassen done?

“I see MI6 has begun damage control,” Yassen said, and Alex jumped. The man had moved behind the couch without him noticing.

Alex turned and pressed back against the armrest, leaning away. “Why did they say he died in a crash? You shot him.”

Yassen didn't answer, instead watching the newscaster finish Alex’s segment. “They have a different number to call for information about you.”

“Why did they say he died in a car crash?” Alex asked again. Someone was lying about Ian’s death! He clenched his fist in the pillow he was holding. Did Jack have any idea what happened? If they didn’t know what happened to Ian, was anyone looking for him?

When Yassen didn’t answer, Alex stood and faced him. “Tell me! I saw you shoot him three times!”

This finally drew Yassen’s attention, and Alex immediately regretted it. Human Yassen was gone, replaced with killer Yassen, who fixed him with a stern look. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Alex swallowed but refused to back down. He met Yassen’s eye, even though he wanted to look away and cower. “I don’t understand.”

“MI6 will not want it getting out that one of their agents was killed or that Ian was an agent,” Yassen explained in a clipped tone. “They made up some fiction. If you had not followed him, they would have told you the same. You would have spent the rest of your life thinking that your uncle was a banker who forgot his seatbelt on the one night that mattered.”

The truth stung. MI6 would have kept lying to him, and he never would have learned the truth. He’d have been a fool his whole life. But at least he would have been a free fool.

Yassen grabbed the remote and switched off the television. “Go to bed.”

“But-“

“I don’t like to ask twice.”

Challenging killer Yassen wouldn’t end well. So Alex stalked back to the room, basically a large closet, that he had slept in last night. He slammed the door after himself, then froze. But luckily Yassen didn’t care.

He flopped onto the musty grey sheets and hugged the pillow to his face. Jack had reported him missing. Well, he assumed she had. He didn’t have anyone else left to notice he was gone. Just Tom and Jack.

What did they think happened? Did they think he ran away? Would Ian’s death be too coincidental? And thinking of Ian made his heart clench. Without the distraction of Yassen’s intimidating presence, his mind replayed the night before over and over.

Ian’s friend put a gun to his head. Ian dropped his gun. Yassen shot him. Ian died. Alex couldn’t stop it, and the last he’d ever see of Ian would be his blood-soaked body.

He hugged the pillow tighter and let it soak up his tears.

But even tears left him eventually, and he rolled over and stared at the ceiling. He had to get out of here. At some point, Yassen would get bored of playing house and get rid of the witness who knew so much about him.

Resolved to risk it, Alex laid on his back and listened closely. He couldn’t hear Yassen typing or moving around outside the room. Had he gone to sleep? He hadn’t tied Alex back up, but maybe that was only for when he left him alone.

Another minute of silence passed and Alex stood. His bare feet were quiet on the carpet as he crept to the door, and he was relieved to see that it was unlocked. 

The house outside the door was dark and silent. He paused outside the bathroom to let his eyes adjust, and to give him plausible deniability if Yassen was still awake. All he could hear was the hum of appliances and faint, slow breathing from the other bedroom. Yassen was asleep.

Emboldened, Alex padded into the living room. The door was locked with a code, but the window only had a keyed lock. Meant to prevent ingress, not egress.

He crouched beside the window and looked over his shoulder at the closed bedroom door again before looking at the lock. The model was unfamiliar but looked simple enough. All he needed was something to pick it with.

Next, he raided the kitchen as quietly as he could. His prize was waiting in the drawer next to the stove. A whisk. He pulled two wires out of it, cursing under his breath when the first wire’s sudden release from the rubber handle reopened a cut on his palm. He sucked on it until it stopped bleeding again, then returned to his task.

Once he had the wires, he used a butter knife and the table to bend them into a makeshift pick and tension wrench. They weren’t perfect, but lord willing they would work. Once Alex had the window open, all he had to do was climb out and run until he found people. 

Picking the lock was simple enough. It was only three cylinders, the lock didn’t have room for any more. The last one slotted into place, and the lock spun. Alex smiled as he pushed the window up an inch. Freedom.

He slid the window open, and the world exploded.

Bright white phosphorous burned into his retinas and anvils slammed into his eardrums. All he could do was fall to the ground and clamp his hands over his ears, waiting for the overwhelming light to stop boring through his eyelids.

The light faded, and Alex lay gasping on the carpet. His ears rang and his head spun. Distantly, he realized that a flashbang had gone off. It must have been attached to the window and been triggered by its opening.

The window thudded shut, and Alex opened his eyes. His entire vision was blue after effects, but they cleared up after a few seconds of blinking at the ceiling. 

Once he could see, he pulled his hands off his head and looked to the window. It was shut, and Yassen was relocking it.

Alex went cold. He realized why Yassen had been comfortable giving him free rein of the house while he slept. He hadn’t had a chance to escape at all.

“Can you hear me?” Yassen asked coldly. It was killer Yassen that stood over him.

Alex nodded. His ears still rang, but he could hear. 

“You tried to escape.”

There was nothing to say to that. The facts were plain. And Alex didn’t think he’d be able to speak around the lump in his throat anyways. 

“Do you remember what I told you this morning?” Yassen asked. His casual menace made Alex want to crawl away, but he just lay panting on the floor. “You tried to escape again. So there must be consequences.”

Alex shook his head. It wasn’t fair. He was supposed to just sit here and be a happy prisoner? His heart threatened to beat out of his chest in fear.

Yassen crouched on one knee beside his head and Alex would have pleaded if he thought it would do anything. “Actions have consequences.” 

A large hand grasped his throat, and Alex’s eyes widened. “No,” he whispered.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Yassen tightened his grip. Alex shook his head frantically and clawed at his arm, but the strong hand on his throat kept him pinned to the ground as his air was slowly cut off.

It hurt. He hadn’t expected the mere pressure on his neck to hurt so bad. Alex’s breath rasped and he stared up at Yassen with fear-blown eyes. The man looked utterly unbothered as he slowly choked the breath out of the teenager beneath him. 

And then, even painful strained breaths were impossible, and Alex *couldn’t breathe*. His lungs spasmed and he bucked against the carpet. Pure unadulterated panic flooded him. He was going to die. He was going to die!

Yassen just stared down at him unfeelingly as he thrashed desperately, and kept squeezing.

Tears welled up in Alex’s eyes as his lungs fought to expand and nothing came. It hurt and he was going to die. This continued for agonizingly long, Alex’s struggles growing both more frantic and weaker as his vision slowly greyed out.

And then the hand was gone, and Alex sucked in a searing breath. It hurt his throat on the way down, and he turned onto his side to gasp and cough. Tears dripped off his chin and onto the carpet below.

“Alex,” Yassen said.

He flinched but didn’t look up. Instead, he stared at the carpet as quiet sobs tore at his raw throat.

“Alex,” Yassen said again, sterner this time.

He looked up and cringed away.

“Will you try to escape again?” Yassen asked, and Alex shook his head. He’d do and say anything to never experience that again. But Yassen didn’t seem convinced. “I think you are a liar.”

He grabbed Alex’s throat again and Alex cried out in terror.

“I won’t!” he shouted. “I won’t! D-don’t. Please.”

Yassen tightened his hand again and Alex sobbed as he looked the killer in the eyes.

But then the hand left him, and he collapsed against the carpet, weak from fear and exhaustion and panic.

“Go back to bed,” Yassen ordered as he stood. 

Alex tried to push himself to his feet, but his arms gave out and he fell to the floor again. Yassen grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet, ignoring his violent flinch. He shoved him toward the bedrooms, and Alex stumbled a few steps.

This time when Alex collapsed onto the sheets, he heard the door lock behind him.

\------

It had been 28 hours since Tom had last seen Alex. Since anyone had seen him. 

Alex had ridden off into the night with a promise that he’d meet him at the party or be grounded. And then no one had heard from him since. 

Tom might not have been the last person to see him, but Ian was dead. So if he saw him didn’t much matter, did it? Except it mattered for all the world. Ian was dead and Alex was following him and Tom let his best mate disappear.

He turned over in his bed for the hundredth time before giving up and getting up. After waffling in front of the phone for a few minutes, Tom made up his mind and dialed Jack’s number.

It only rang once before Jack answered with a breathless, “Alex?”

“Uh, it’s me, Tom,” he said awkwardly.

Jack’s voice fell. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize the number and hoped-- Well, it doesn’t matter.”

And Jack didn’t sound any better than Tom was feeling.

“Sorry to bug you,” Tom apologized, feeling suddenly ridiculous. “But, uh, I couldn’t sleep. And I was wondering if I could come to your house? And, I don’t know, hang out in Alex’s room? Maybe look at his stuff? I know I sound like an utter creep saying it out loud, but--”

Jack cut him off. “No, not at all. Please do come on over. Just, tell your parents where you’re going first.”

“I will, I promise,” Tom said.

When Tom arrived at the Rider house, all of the lights were on, despite the fact that it was pushing midnight. He stowed his bike and knocked on the door, and Jack answered after less than ten seconds.

Jack was a mess. She was still wearing the same pajamas she’d been wearing when they went to file the missing person’s report last night. And she didn’t look like she’d slept since.

“Tom,” she greeted, stepping aside to let him in. “Come on in.”

He followed her inside, suddenly awkward in the house he practically grew up in. “Thanks.”

“You want tea? Coffee? Water?” Jack asked, going through the role of host like the script of a bad stage play. 

Tom shook his head. “I’m fine, thanks.” 

The Rider home was empty. While it had always been inhabited by a small family, now the walls seem to stretch for miles with only Jack and Tom here. Jack led him up to Alex’s room, which looked like normal.

“The police have been through it,” Jack said, leaning on the door frame. “They thought maybe he’d run away and left a note.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Tom said, shaking his head in disbelief. Alex had a wild side, but he was too nice to leave Ian and Jack in the lurch like that. Or, leave Jack in the lurch like that.

Jack shrugged, hands in the pockets of her robe. “That’s what I told them. They don’t know what happened to him. What does it mean after a kid goes missing when his uncle dies in a car crash?”

Alex’s desk was a disaster zone, and his laptop was still perched in the mess. Tom picked up an old photo of Alex and Ian, from back in year five or six. They were happy and smiling at some football match. Tom looked at it as he said, “I don’t know.”

“Me neither,” Jack admitted. She sat down on the bed and picked up Alex’s pillow. “My visa expires in two weeks. But if I leave and Alex comes back to an empty house...”

Oh god. If Jack left, who would Alex live with? What does the state do with someone orphaned twice over? Tom picked up a signed cricket ball from the stand on Alex’s desk. Ian had brought it back from some trip overseas, and Alex had been ecstatic.

Ian was an ass sometimes, but Alex loved him. He’d follow him to the end of the-

Tom slammed the ball back down and whirled on Jack. “Why did I let him follow him?”

“What, baby?” Jack asked.

“Why did I let Alex follow him?!” Tom demanded. How could he have been so stupid? “If I had made Alex come to the party he’d still be here!”

Jack stood went over to Tom. “Oh, no. You didn’t let him do anything, It’s Alex, he does what he wants. Drive me crazy like that.”

“I should have told somebody when he didn’t show up,” Tom said, and his voice broke. “What if I let my best mate run off and die?”

Warm arms encircled him as Jack hugged him. “No, Tom. You didn’t. Alex is fine. Any minute now he’s going to walk through that door and ask why we’re all so upset.”

“Then where is he?” Tom asked. 

“I don’t know,” Jack admitted. “I just don’t know.”

\------

When Alex woke up the next morning, his throat was sore, and swallowing felt like glass. The sun had risen, and based on the angles of the shadows in his room, it was well on its way towards noon.

He rolled over and stared up at the ceiling. The longer he stayed in bed, the longer he could avoid Yassen. All of the most terrifying moments of his life had been in the last three days. And being strangled last night was vying for the top spot.

But eventually, biology won out, and he had to use the restroom. After ignoring it for as long as he could, he finally hauled himself out of bed and changed into clean clothes. The clothes that Yassen had bought that first day were still in a grocery bag, all pajama pants and long-sleeved shirts.

The door was unlocked when Alex tried it, and his heart hammered as he slowly pushed it open and stepped outside. The bathroom was catty-corner to him, so he darted inside before Yassen could notice his presence.

After he relieved himself, he washed his hands. When he saw himself in the mirror, he recoiled. Livid bruising encircled his throat, dark red interspersed with splotches of purple. It looked like some macabre choker.

As with any bruise, he prodded at it and grimaced at the pain ensuing pain. He’d be wearing these marks for a while, and each glance in the mirror would be a reminder of last night. As if he could forget the sheer terror of being pinned down and fighting for breath while a murderer strangled him.

He cupped water in his hands to slake his thirst, but the first swallow hurt so bad that he coughed and choked. Each cough only worsened the pain, and he soon found himself doubled over and gripping the sink for dear life until the vicious cycle passed.

Once he recovered, he turned off the sink and intended to go back to hide in his room. But a call of his name had him frozen in place.

“Alex,” Yassen called. “Come here.”

Did he have to? How long could he get away with hiding? Not long, he guessed. He steeled himself and walked into the main house.

Yassen was standing at the island with a small orange cardboard box, a red plastic bottle, an ice pack, and a grocery bag. With a small wave, he beckoned Alex to him.

Alex was tense as a rubber band as he walked over, ready to flee back to the illusion of safety in the bedroom at any moment. He came to a stop a few feet away from the island, and Yassen rolled his eyes and waved him closer again. At least it was human Yassen.

“This will help,” Yassen handed him the ice pack then opened the orange carton.

Alex took the ice pack gingerly and pressed it to his throat. The coolness soothed some of the ache, and he let his shoulders drop in relief. Meanwhile, Yassen pulled a bottle of children’s Motrin out of the box and poured multiple capfuls of purple liquid into a shot glass. 

“Take this.” He pushed the shot glass to Alex, who looked at the children’s packaging doubtfully. “Pills would hurt worse. Take it as a shot, one swallow.”

The thought that it could be drugged crossed Alex’s mind, but he’d seen Yassen undo the tamper seal and pour it. And, if Yassen truly wanted him controlled or drugged, he would get his way eventually. 

He took the shot glass and downed it in one, face screwing up at the pain it caused his abused throat. But it helped, soothing some of the hurt on its way down.

“The swelling will make eating difficult,” Yassen explained. He didn’t sound remorseful, but he seemed genuinely concerned for the pain Alex was in. It made him feel off balance.

The red bottle was a vanilla nutritional shake, and Yassen slid it across the counter towards him. Alex shook his head, but Yassen said, “See how you feel after the medicine starts working. It’s past lunch.”

Alex nodded and whispered, “Thanks.” Even that one word was painful.

Yassen gestured to the bag beside him. “I picked up a few books you might enjoy, or you may watch TV.” He went into the dining room and opened his laptop and began reading something. Clearly, he’d gone out while Alex was asleep. At least to go shopping, and probably to kill someone or whatever his current job was. Alex wondered if he was still working for the people who ordered Ian killed.

The three books were milquetoast, ones that Alex saw on end caps of the ‘teen’ section of every book section of the grocery store. But they were something to occupy his time and mind, so he grabbed the one that looked the least boring and retreated to the bedroom. 

The door didn’t lock from Alex’s side, but having it shut between him and Yassen alleviated some of the blanket of terror that had fallen over him. He curled up against the bedspread and tried to read the book. It was boring, some unbelievable fantasy novel about teenagers saving the world. Normally he was a fast reader, but each page was a fight. His brain didn’t want to focus.

Eventually, the medicine kicked in, and Alex’s throat hurt less. The background pain each time he breathed too deeply went away, and he even forced down the nutrition shake. 

The chalky vanilla liquid reminded him of being a kid and Ian forcing him to drink cans of Pediasure. He’d been worried that Alex wasn’t growing fast enough, and had bought cases of the stuff. Alex smiled despite himself at the sense memory. It was happier times.

But happy memories of Ian gave way to the realization that he’d never get to make anymore. The last memory he’d have of Ian would be his slack face as Yassen dragged him away from Ian’s body. Maybe he’d get to see him at the funeral, if they waited for Alex to come home to bury him.

When the door opened, Alex realized that there were tears running down his face and wiped at them with his sleeves. Yassen didn’t comment as he stepped into the room.

Alex pressed back against the bed frame and watched Yassen warily, not knowing if the man was coming to deliver more pain. But he brought only medicine and sustenance.

“It’s been four hours,” Yassen explained, and Alex realized that it was dark outside. Time was meaningless. He offered a shot glass with a pink liquid in it this time. “Paracetamol. You can alternate the two medicines every four hours.”

The same mistrust as before came over Alex, but he knew if Yassen wanted to drug him, he could force it on him. So he took the glass and knocked back the medicine. It was a cloying bubblegum flavor and Alex made a face and accepted the proffered bottle of water to wash it down.

Yassen also set another shake down on the bed. He stepped closer to Alex, who flinched away and raised his arms in a parody of defense. He was almost as helpless to stop Yassen from choking him again as he was to avoid being drugged. 

This made Yassen pause. “Alex,” he said gently and sat down on the edge of the bed. 

Alex tensed and leaned away slightly. “What?” he asked hoarsely. He flinched when Yassen raised his hand, but the man only cupped his face gently. His fingers were warm against the bruise on Alex’s cheek from being slapped the first night.

“I don’t want to cause you pain,” Yassen assured him, looking for all the world regretful. “I won’t hurt you if you obey and don’t try to escape.”

Alex thought back to the first night. Yassen had slapped him, but only when he thought Alex was lying to him. And in a way, he had been lying. 

Frowning, Alex nodded hesitantly. Yassen was still softly touching his face. 

“I like you, Alex,” Yassen said with a soft smile. “You’re so much like your father. I don’t want to have to punish you again, so don’t make me. Okay?”

“Okay,” Alex whispered, eyes wide. Yassen pulled away, and the disappointment he felt at the loss of contact left him even more confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mindfuckery. Mindfuckery galore.
> 
> The rest of the fic will come out as I finish it, as I have exhausted my reserves. Hope you enjoy!


End file.
